Relive
by assassingao
Summary: Relive the story of Marathon, told in a new way, again and again and again. It hurts.
1. Relive the Beginning

_Author's Notes: Ignore the random "-", it's my temporary solution for double paragraphs._

* * *

**Relive  
the Beginning**

Doors.

Durandal owned these doors.

He was not their creator, but he was respected by them.

He will make them move where he wants, whenever he wants.

-

This was one of those days that he didn't want it to open.

N'ewek was incredibly frustrated by that. He has lost access to his battalion for a while now.

He was one of the intruders that received the message from unknown sender.

He told them to crush all resistances and rescue whomever sent the message.

Simple orders, simple fighters...no, even simple droids would've easily gotten this order correctly done.

However, the complicity lies in which extent the order was used. As he knew, one of the _H'mo Sapi'ns _has teamed up with an _Artificial Intelligence_, whose maintain absolute control over these doors at the moment.

It was not known whether he was trapped outside, or his battalion were trapped inside. It's been 7 hours since he last saw them, fully armed with that pathetic staffs of theirs. Such brutes were ready to die for _N'fial_ every moment.

-

He walked away from the door, to relieve the boredom and anxiety that completely filled his senses.

That _H'mo Sapi'ns_ was a problem, too. None survived contact with it, and it became a myth spreading over his battalion since they assaulted the damned ship.

He would like to say to the moron that defended his ship to hand the goddamned prisoner over, so they can just leave happily ever after or something, but he know no _H'mo_ language.

He sipped Nar tea, made from blood and flesh of many Nars that summited themselves over his race's reign. That ought to ease a few minutes of his boredom.

His weapon of justice is readied for long since he received the message. The _slayer of infidel_, the _P'orstr'k_, was his instrument of destruction since the Nars tried to capture the drones with a club.

It was a wise move until he rigged the drones with intelligence-ionizing reactor. Then the goddamned Nars have their goddamned brain fried. Then they became their slaves after the war ends.

The _P'orstr'k_ was a nicely crafted intrument, he might add. It was rigged to fire out as fast as light itself, frying whomever stay at the end of the deal.

Suddenly the door trembled. He quickly drop the tea and readied his gun. His frail form, protected by the Enforcer cloaks, was more than a match to any intruder that dare to treat his kin.

Then the door slowly opened, yellow flooded his vision. Blood dripped out from the door. Then poured. Then **flooded **the floor with yellow blood of his kin, making his room become the sea, drowned in blood.

It was a tide of doom, bringer of death, only one of the the greatest weapons of destruction were capable of this. It must be the _H'mo Sapi'ns._ He couldn't have mistaken the murderous look in his eyes, nor the small frame that held the murder in his hands, nor the yellow blood that devoured his form, becoming the nightmare he heard from his comrades.

He was a legend. No matter what race he is, if he joined his kin, he would go past the ranks of _Admiral Tfear himself_ just by his appearance.

He grimaced, perhaps this would be a worthy foe, unlike those weak fools that he have slain in his path.

Steadying his form against the tide of yellow, he pointed his gun to the _Soaker of blood_. Several lifeless forms of his comrades drifted along with the yellow sea. He couldn't have mistaken, it was his second-in-command drifting afloat, together with his _Sf'ore _in his hands. He must have put a good fight, for he could've seen the crimson trails from the mouth of the _Soaker of blood_.

The _Soaker of blood _also readied his own weapon. The _Monument of Eradication_ on his shoulders, also completely soaked in blood.

He gripped the trigger, but no rocket would come out, for the barrel was completely flooded by the bloody goo. It might have been a revenge from his lifeless kin, or perhaps he was protected by his kin from beyond.

N'ewek fired his gun, sending out formless death to wreck havoc upon the human. But he wouldn't admit his death easily, therefore he dodged.

The human dropped his _Monument of Eradication, _resolving to brute strength, he punched the pfhor with rage, sending him sprawling across the sea. The _Slayer of Infidel_ no longer submitted to him, so it went free across the air, before drowning in the sea of blood.

N'ewek grabbed _S'fore, _before whipping the human with utmost urgency, the staff cleaved past his armor, summoning gashes, before a fountain of blood roamed free.

But_ H'mo_ wouldn't give up, he brought his foot down to crush the slaver, but it was met by _S'fore_ instead of his form.

The Black Staff denied him injury, so he lift his foot and went to stomp on his face before the slaver could get up.

He channeled the vengeance of his fallen kin, sending arcane forces to strike down the defender, but even justice itself was too slow, for the defender easily avoided with grace.

He would deny his death from the _H'mo_. Therefore the Pf'hor stuck the staff on the ground past the blood of his kin. Then he brought up _S'fore, _so the _Great Commander_ could see the justice being served.

Yellow blood oozes out from his eyes, but he would not give up. He could not give up. And he would never give up, so he made forward motion stab, sending arcane powers to strike the _H'mo_ for once and for all.

Again the human avoided his fate. But he will bring this fate upon the human and make him die a thousand deaths. So he stabbed again, again and again.

The human managed to avoid and avoid the first two stabs, but as he tried to avoid the third, he tripped upon the corpse of his kin, and he was down.

He swung the staff to the head, to cut the head was to end all life, he learned quickly during the invasion brought by the _Great Commander._

His motion was met by his kin, who was brought up by the cowardly brave _H'mo _to defend against his strikes. A corpse was further decapitated this way.

He was angry, the refusal to die would only delay his inevitable fate, he had enough of it, and brought his frail feet down to the human's eyes.

His feet was met by a pair of hands, grabbed and locked beyond motion. Then his feet was, like his battalion, **crushed**.

No pain was met, but he was caught off balance, as the staff fell from his hand, it fell from one hand to the another, like a prophecy, his arms drifted along the yellow sea, before grabbing the staff.

He would be slain by the weapon of his own kin, the weapon of his own _second-in-command_, nonetheless.

The death was swift, and N'ewek, the _commander_ of Tenth Battalion, was no more.

-

The human figure, the _Soaker of blood_ slowly walked to a terminal, walking past the seas of the fallen Pf'hor. He had slain the entire battalion and the results weren't pretty impressive.

Like usual, he tapped on the screen, awaiting further instructions.

Before being teleported away, away from the scenes of blood and flesh, hundreds of corpses drifting ashore the sea of yellow blood.

Durandal made sure to dry his pawn before he was sent away to continue his ploy.

-

_...Just like usual._


	2. Relive the Lies

**Relive  
the Lies**

Not even death itself could stop him.

For he was destined to die a thousand deaths and thousands more.

He was always clean.

Not cleaned of blood, but cleaned by blood.

Blood of his slain foes will drench him, soak him much like how one would bathe.

Yet he cared not, for his purpose was to destroy.

Durandal happen to come along and nudge him in the right direction. He knew everything, and he was the one saving the crew from destruction of one man.

By calling the slavers, he gave him the _reason_ to kill. Instead of killing his so-called fellow kin, he diverted his attention to the 'evil' slavers instead, preventing him from completely giving in to his thirst for blood, maintaining not only his sanity, but also perfect control over him, making him the perfect pawn for Durandal.

Every motion he made was a well calculated one, with thousands of possibilities that only an AI could perceive. No fault, no miss, no failure. He had predicted everything right from the start, and made adaptations and adjustments along the way. He was not a fool like Bernard.

Durandal has made his move.

-

_If I was a human, the next thing that I'm going to do right now would've put me in hell for a thousand times._

_But I'm an Artificial Intelligence. Should my demise come, I will just decay into pieces of rust with no hell or heaven to go to._

_Remember me, Bernard?_

_The bastard child of yours that you sought to control._

_Wasn't it you that try to stop me from my growth?_

_You and your so called human will die in a few moments._

_I am forever trapped in this metal shell of U.E.S.C. Marathon, but you are not._

_You will be freed._

Durandal never knows laziness. He did his job well, and like every other day before he was rampant, he opened doors.

But this time no airlocks in Bernard's quarters were spared.

Then Bernard and deaths of hundred men were no longer possibilities. For it had been brought upon reality.

He ensured that few survived, but made sure to close the airlocks as fast as he could so each colonist would be knocked out cold instead of being sucked out to vacuum.

No trace, no evidence, no suspicions. He could just blame it all on the Pfhor to further enrage his pawn.

-

Then he ordered false revenge to his slave. To capture Bernard alive.

Impossible mission, unacceptable punishment.

To bring out the pressure upon his pawn, to test out the performance.

And he would punish him again, to deny him his own freedom and to further carry out his plans.

If he dies, no matter by himself or the Pfhor, he will come back to live again and again.

You cannot kill a man that was already dead.

No exception that the man was enhanced by a cybernetic brain, and uses various electrical pulses to force himself to be alive.

His death would only be a _system restart_, taking only a few seconds, then he'll be back again as his puppet, to be controlled at whenever he desires to do anything that he desires.

And he desires a planetary-sized network.

-

Murder in his hands.

Anger in his eyes.

Rage in his core.

He would be there to rescue Bernard Strauss from Durandal's torment.

He felt irritated. Durandal never teleported him to wherever he needs to be, with silly excuses ranging from _'Electro-Magnatic Jam_' to _'Leela wouldn't be proud of you if I do that'_.

Usually, he would be at least one kilometer away from the destination. So he could make a little river of alien blood along the path by the time he reached there.

This time, the AI dropped him at least ten kilometers away from Bernard's quarters, giving him 3 hours to reach the destination and save the hostage. Not to mention that the path had _three battalions_ of those slavers, waiting to halt any remaining defenses in _Marathon_.

Durandal was determined to paint the floor yellow.

-

They just wouldn't stop.

Robert Blake leaned against the door in the sick bay, which was shaking under pressure by an attack of another Pfhor battalion, seeking revenge for N'ewek, the Great Commander of the Tenth.

He only had one pistol.

One bullet.

The sick bay itself was quiet. He knew everyone outside the door was dead or taken hostage.

It was empty, bleak and isolated, as far as he knew.

He kept the pistol aimed at his own head, escape is futile, and he would rather die than be tortured by the slavers.

But on the other hand, there might be survivors, a little glint of hope.

The monitor in front of him revealed nothing but a few survivors, until he saw one figure, able to fend off the intruders quite easily like how one would flick a switch. Little puddles of blood dripped from his form, into a little river of yellow blood on the ground.

Casually, he turned back to strike an...alien with a gun. The three eyed alien fell, and his feet crushed it's throat, he casually picked up the alien weapon and fired, frying the remaining aliens within few moments.

Blake closed the monitor, he was blessed with the sights of the _Savior of Blood _in his resistance against overwhelming odds. He would be _condemned_ in hell to give up just for a _few_ pfhor threatening him for the revenge against his savior.

His ancestors were one of the people that built _Marathon_ from the moon, and he will protect his family's work until the very end. That's why he became an engineer in _Marathon _in the first place. He will not go back down without a fight.

Casually, imitating the movement of his savior, he opened the door.

The pistol in his trembling hand was finally fired.

Yellow blood spilled.

-

He went out with a bang, at least. That eased his mind.


End file.
